Wednesday, December 05, 2012

You're a bum, you're a punkYou're an old slut on junk, lying there almost dead on a drip in that bedYou scumbag, you maggot, you cheap lousy faggotHappy Christmas your arse I pray God it's our last.

So goes the greatest holiday song of the modern era*, recorded by the Pogues in 1988 and sung by Shane MacGowan and the late Kirsty MacColl.
'Fairytale of New York' is the ballad of a pair of Irish immigrants
down on their luck in a city celebrating the Christmas season. It's by
turns tender, vulgar, and comical. It is by no means your parents'
seasonal fare - you won't hear 'Fairytale' anywhere near 'It's Christmas Eve in Washington'.

* This is both a personal opinion, and an entirely objective fact, deemed so by a VH1 UK poll in 2004.

I've long loved this tune, largely because I've long
loved The Pogues. I owned If I Should Fall From Grace with God on cassette
(Google it, kids) even before I met Clarence, who loves The Pogues more
than anyone I know, save the benighted Cap Noonan, who may well be part
of the band at this point. It's hard to keep track of him, what with all
his republican (and I don't mean GOP) rabble rousing and Jameson-fueled
sentimental journeys. (These journeys - and inside jokes - being referenced out of much
awestruck affection.)

Pardon the digression.

With that as backdrop, you'll understand the great joy I felt experienced when a Ron
Zacapa-aided Internet walkabout last weekend led me to a brilliant
documentary on the making of 'Fairytale of New York'. The doc, released in 2005, features many of the original members of The Pogues, including
the inimitable - and miraculously still living - MacGowan, the only man
alive who looks at Clarence and sees a rank amateur teetotaler. The film is worth watching for a multitude of reasons, not the least of which is MacGowan's toothless, hissing laughter.

Offered
in six YouTube installments, the documentary doubles as a history of
the careers of both MacColl and The Pogues. Among the more poignant
moments, the reflections of producer Steve Lillywhite (who was married
to MacColl at the time of her death in 2000) on his late wife's
contribution to the song. You'll likely find your immediate surroundings
a mite dusty at that point in the film. Especially if you've had a
cocktail or three.

I also particularly enjoyed the story of the
NYPD Choir (as in, 'The boys in the NYPD Choir were singing Galway
Bay/And the bells were ringing out on Christmas Day'), which doesn't
actually exist. The producers of the video for 'Fairytale' papered over
that inconvenient fact by hijacking the NYPD Pipe and Drum Band,
bribing them with copious amounts of alcohol. The many-sided memories
(bemused police and addled band members, with a side of Matt Dillon
thrown in for absurd good measure) of the ensuing video shoot are likely
to bring a whole different sort of tears.

Enjoy the film as our
gift to you in this season of silliness and revelry - it's a not your typical 90-second G:TB experience (entendre entirely intentional - our ladies are so very lucky) so be sure to block out some time. It's also advised that you have a whiskey on hand, so maybe watch at home instead of the office. We feel certain
that Shane and Gheorghe would get on famously, even if there's not a
chance in hell that either would understand a word said by the other.

here is a kinder, gentler, more decipherable version of that song in an unplugged, live, and acoustic form by one Christy Moore, one of the better musicians you've probably never heard of. my first trip to ireland was in 1996. i brought this album home with me. 'tis grande.

I'm a sucker for Pogues posts and especially this song. The March 2006 show I have mentioned more than once here was their first with Shane back in the fold, and man, we thought he was touch and go. More than once he left the stage with his bottle and we said, "Yep, he's done," only to see him return a song later and belt out another great tune. As the set got towards the end, I said, "They haven't played 'Fairytale' yet, right?" And just as the two nutty Irishmen* who flanked me (Flynn and Cap) agreed, fake snow began falling onto the stage. The female singer (not Kirsty, since it was after 2000) came out, and they gave a terrific rendition, replete with a dance in the snow. I think it's on YouTube somewhere... get the intern on it. It was a highlight of any show I've seen.

Zman your "don't get down like that" comment demonstrates much improved musical diplomacy on your part. Either that, or it's easier to come across that way when we can't see your face. I know my listening habits strained your patience at times.

You expanded my horizons and my parameters. I now enjoy, for example, Ry Cooder. I will never be able to wrap my head around your enthusiasm for most of Phish's catalog. But like Toby Keith and Ke$ha, a lot of people enjoy that stuff and who am I to say they're wrong?

Hey now, watch what you say about Toby Keith, or Big Dog Daddy (he actually named an album that) will put a boot in your ass!

I don't even remember what I liked about Phish, or that I was listening to Ry Cooder back then. My horizons were expanded as well. Just yesterday I was driving around in my crappy minivan blasting The Beastie Boys.

I have five crates of (mostly) hip hop on vinyl. Sadly, my turntables are no longer functional. Looking to purchase a new pair in the new year.

Update on my iPhone catastrophe. AT&T still sucks but Apple heeded my (possibly empty) threats about no longer purchasing there products and waved my shipping fee as well as gave me $150 credit to their online store. I'll without my personal phone for a few days but at least I get some free shit.

Miss VA '96 was on my freshman hall. Very pretty and as straight-laced as it gets. She loved to give hugs. The kinds annoying middle-school girls like to give each other. They were immature, innocent and comically annoying. She would do it every day. It would make me angry, like most everything those days (and these days). Finally, I found an exit strategy. The next time she went in for one, I reciprocated and let my hand roam a bit more to the south on her backside than she was anticipating. Problem solved. In retrospect, you could (and should) question my logic of avoiding hugs from a future Miss VA. Maybe I don't want no skinny woman. Meat don't shake.